The Seven's Days of Harrenhal
by High Plains Drifter
Summary: An Alternate Universe of the False Spring and Lord Whent's Great Tourney. "The Seven Gods who made us all, are listening if we should call. So close your eyes, you shall not fall, they see you, little children. Just close your eyes, you shall not fall, they see you, little children."
1. Day 1 - The Mother (Brynden POV)

**Day 1 – The Mother**

" _Gentle Mother, font of mercy,  
save our sons from war, we pray,  
stay the swords and stay the arrows,  
let them know a better day._"

* * *

 **(Ser Brynden's POV)**

The Blackfish hid his impatience beneath classic Tully auburn eyebrows and behind classic Tully blue eyes; a useful skill for one renowned as a stubborn and blunt knight. Being the brother of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands was another nifty gift ... at times. Unlike the Westerlanders he was accompanying from Riverrun, Brynden never had a pavilion to pitch at the end of the day's journey nor breakdown at dawn's kiss.

As their noble guide, he picked the travel route and knew which castles and holdfasts best served his needs, aside from free lodging. Which was why he had initially led young Ser Jaime and his entourage on the indirect arc of the River Road; instead of the straighter, yet displeasing, path through Atranta, Stone Hedge with Lord Bracken's eldest daughter Celia, and the tolerable but issue laden Raventree Hall. His patience would not forebear the tourney interrupted by frequent tirades about petty disputes between his brother's most quarrelsome and tedious banner lords.

Brynden did not need unwanted distractions. Hoster's plans surely didn't need it. These were delicate times, and not just because poor lovestruck Littlefinger had foolishly tried to make a hash of intricate things, not just once, but twice, damn his honorless, selfish soul. 'To think I cared for the boy like he was my own son,' the Blackfish thought bitterly.

"Ha," said the agreeable young voice on horseback beside him, gesturing at the figures scurrying about in the early light outside the modest keep. "To think not six months ago, I would have been doing the likes of that for Lord Crakehall. A squire's work is never done."

Jaime Lannister had not slept beneath a cloth roof either last night, or most of the nights of their journey together.

"As squire or knight, old Lord Druss would have found room for the heir of Casterly Rock," Brynden said equitably.

The youth smirked. "That battleaxe? The dungeon more like. Or perhaps a broom closet, if he's in his cups and cheery."

Brynden laughed at the truth of it, but could not help himself from needling, "Might have found a pretty young something wearing nothing but a layer of a little grime waiting for a strapping lad like yourself in that broom closet, instead you had to share tight chambers with me."

Those piercing Lannister green eyes grew cat wary for a second, there was a reason the lad's uncle Kevan was trailing somewhere behind them and the young knight was just adult enough to realize the why of it. Then suddenly the young lion roared in laughter. "Sumner Crakehall, _Seven_ bless him for all his many lordly gifts, had an amazing capacity to both snore and fart in his sleep. I've slept as if in the _Mother's_ arms with you each night, Ser Brynden. I can do without the pleasures of the broom closet, I assure you."

The Blackfish broke into a grin. "Nay, just another lordly talent which sadly I lack," he disagreed amiably. "You would be wise to hone such useful skills at that before you acquire a squire of your own. It keeps them awake when they've still work aleft; and spares them the rod and embarrassment when you inevitably catch them dozing off when they shouldn't. Ask my Ren, when you see him anon, how black and blue I chastise him for his evening indolences."

Young Ser Jaime shook his head gently in the negative and grinned all the more. "I doubt that's why they call you the Blackfish, Ser Bryden," he japed. "I envy your Ren his service. Surely he has nothing but admiration for you," he continued more seriously.

What sweet danger that. "And I envy your knighting by the Sword of the Morning. Tell me again about Big Belly Ben and the Smiling Knight," he asked the youth, turning the conversation in a safer direction.

The emerald eyes lit with excitement and off Jaime Lannister went describing the efforts that had rooted out the Kingswood Brotherhood. The older knight smiled. He'd heard these tales a dozen times in the last score of days from the lad. A turnabout of affairs from only a year and a half ago, when the heir of Casterly Rock had been unknowingly sent by that same said Sumner Crakehall - at Lord Tywin's secret request no doubt - to see if something like attraction … or at least affection might develop between Jaime and Brynden's niece Lysa.

The squire, to Hoster's vast annoyance, had all but ignored the shy young girl in order to squeeze every possible battle story out of the unknown target's uncle. Odd that a man of Tywin Lannister's repute had let such potential fraught events tend to themselves. Now the iron shoe was nailed to the hoof of the other rider's horse. Yesterday's boy had since accomplished notable feats, passing from squire to knight; but still hot blooded enough to revel in the telling of glorious deeds. Ahhh, to be young and naïve.

* * *

There was nothing like Spring after a Winter; even as short a one as had just passed. Pollen filled breezes pushing away the night's chill air with the alluring promise of warmth. Trees budding. Early flowers blooming. Simple mud, neither ice nor slush, to cake the hooves of a knight's mount. The whole of Westeros was uncoiling from its brief hibernation and Ser Brynden enjoyed it a horse immensely. Worries could wait a while.

He had set an easy pace all along from Riverrun in case Ser Kevan lurked not far behind trying to catch up. Now, growing close, even with the rising crowds as paths and roads merged on the main way south towards God's Eye, his party should make it to the wide fields beneath Harrenhal's giant discolored curtain wall no later than noon. Plenty of light left in the day to pitch tents, find a long absent friend or two, and bend the elbow thrice or more times. He cared little for the tag along Westerland lordlings' complaints that all the prime spots would already be taken just a day before the Tourney's official start.

"Toadying lick-spittles," his companion, Lucion Lefford, grumbled; clearly hearing the same low muttered grievances and sharing the Blackfish's thoughts.

"I know not what you mean, my lord," he purposefully prodded with too obvious an innocent tone.

"Ohhhh, ayyyeeeeee, Ser Brynden" drawled the middle aged Lord of Golden Tooth. "The brother of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands never once encountered favor seekers who griped in disappointment at the poor return on their perceived investment of time and sweet meaningless words. Forsooth, the personal insult to their honor that they are not afforded every dignity their large arses and small brains believe them entitled too."

Brynden guffawed at the current titular senior member of the contingent. With lands bordering right on the Riverlands and the River Road, Lord Lucion was the Westerlander noble he happened to know best. Much trade flowed over the pass the man controlled between the two kingdoms. What's more, he liked the gruff, sarcastic whoreson.

"Remember that when I'm dead, Leo," the lord shouted over his shoulder.

"Yes, father," the sullen response came back from one of the pair riding right behind them. Leo lacked his father's flare for insults, just a sour grump of a man. No style or enjoyment to it.

"You too, little peacock," the man added, addressing his younger squire, who road beside his son. The thirteen year old grunted loudly some disinterested response. Lord Lucion continued in only a slightly less loud voice, "Not that Myles stands to inherit anything more than a dungheap. Old Serret is near as bad as even older Frey in propagating. What's the point in it I say? Have done, enjoy your dotage with dignity, and move along nicely to your grave."

Brynden chuckled, dislike of Walder Frey was near universal amongst the worshippers of the Seven. Lucky for the First Men of the North, his soon to be good nephew and family aside, few worshippers of the Old Gods had come down the Neck for the coming nuptials and been forced to enjoy the experience of the Crossing and House Frey's bleak hospitality.

"Keep your chortles to yourself, Ser," Lucion challenged with a wicked grin. "Not spreading your seed at all's as bad as sowing it too wide."

"Fear not for me, see who I choose as my Queen of Love and Beauty when I win the tourney and doubt me. I dare you, my lord," he responded jauntily. This ground was so overly tread it bothered him less than a hangnail.

"Ha. Think you have a chance? Aye, I suppose _you_ do. Not my Leo though. Fierce competition with such oodles of dragons for prize money. The best of the whole Seven Kingdoms, and then some, will be there. Leo'll be lucky to win a single bout." The Lord of Golden Tooth scratched his salt and pepper beard in thought. In a lower voice, he added most leadingly and not for the first time, "Didn't think Lord Walter had the gold for this. Harrenhal never were cheap or lucky."

"King Aerys," Brynden countered blithely, as he had every day when talk of the tourney invariably came up, as did this question.

"Suppose so, suppose so. Oswell's his brother, has the king's ear of course," Lucion grumbled in conspiratorial agreement, as he almost always did in re-joinder to the Blackfish's stock answer. "Ser Jaime!?" he yelled, "What chances think your new spurs will have in the joust."

The young knight stopped talking with his childhood friend who was the older of Lord Lucion's two squires, slowed his mount, and turned the chestnut hunter so he could more directly address the question. "Low to middling at best, my lord, if Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur accompany his Grace."

'Yes, Aerys. A baited trap. But for whom?' Brynden mused for the thousandth time. He and Hoster both feared they knew the answer.

"Many a fine lance shall be present, my lord," chirped in the youth who had been riding beside Ser Jaime, like peas in a pod with the vigor and beauty of warriors in the first bloom of manhood. "I pray the tourney knights Ser Dagonet and Ser Ector attend. They tilted mightily for the championship at Ashemark last year."

"Bah, I thought I had taught you better, young Addam; that ilk are little more than merchants of the joust. The _Warrior_ grant a knight of noble blood and noble spirit win the laurels … and Lord Whent's bulging purse," Lord Lucion declared with an amused snort.

Another debate of who deserved to win, who might likely win, who did and didn't need the prize money, and what happened to the gold if a White Cloak won turned again and again in unanswerable, yet pleasant time passing, circles. Only the lists would eventually winnow the truth from all the supposition.

* * *

"Turn back, lest ye pollute yourselves with sinful entertainments," a shrill, hectoring voice floated on the wind.

Lord Lucion squinted ahead up the road towards the bottom of the long hill. "What arse's piles is that?"

"Some begging brother, my lord," Ren piped up.

"Help the _Mother_ protect her daughters from lustful fury!"

"Go to it with a cold eye and firm grasp on your purse lest the whores charge too much," a taunting retort drifted back over the crowd in front of the party from Riverrun.

"This be your last chance to stay to the _Seven's_ true path afore you spy wanton flesh and mammon!"

Some wags passing near the tree upon which the lowly septon perched to preach began singing,

" _The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,_

 _and her kisses were warmer than spring._

 _But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,_

 _and its kiss was a terrible thing._

 _The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,_

 _in a voice that was sweet as a peach …_ "

"The _Father_ shall judge you all, ware lest you be found wanting!"

"The likes of him would faint dead of embarrassment if the _Maid_ ever visited his dreams," Brynden commented.

"Or sport a cockstand," Lord Lucion harrumphed in disgust.

Everyone in hearing distance shot looks of surprise at the font of the blasphemy.

"What? You think that one doesn't slack his lusts disguised within the cloak of the _Seven_? The _Father_ may judge, but _Mother_ protect me from false prophets. The _Crone_ gave me eyes to see with. I'll use them to choose my own path, for good or ill," Lucion Lefford rumbled dangerously, daring any to gainsay his wisdom.

The party, near quiet as Silent Sisters, rode past the rants of the wild eyed, thread bare Holy Brother and up the slope. Harrenhal awaited just the other side.

"For whom the _Seven_ loves they reprove, even as a mother corrects the child in whom she delights. For your sins affect the world. Repent! Impurity, debauchery, adultery, drunkenness, greed, violence, discord; these shall tear the earth asunder and lead you to the deepest of the Seven Hells."

* * *

The tide of humans, horses, and carts ground to a near halt by the time the summit was broached. Here travelers paused to catch their first glimpse, perhaps ever, of King Harren's Folly. Though to be fair, Brynden thought, how was the long dead bugger to know that Aegon and his dragons would land on Westeros the year the castle was completed? "Difficult to beat a three headed dragon," he muttered.

Most merchants and gathered smallfolk, view satisfied, would soon enough start down the backside, eager to join the throngs already gathered in a panorama of colors from one shore of the God's Eye, past Harrentown, around the sweep of the mighty walls ravaged by Balerion the Black Dread's fire, and back down to the shore again – a vast multitude.

Off along the sides on the ridge, amongst smatterings of trees and scrub, those wishing to make an impressive arrival in keeping with their status or desire for such, immodestly swapped off dirty and sweat stained travel garments of capes, cloaks, hats, tunics, and trousers for fine linens, precious silks, and shiny steel.

Brynden cared little for such. He was the brother of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands for Seven's sake; anyone who mattered already knew who he was and woe the fool who didn't. Yet he had long ago conceded that the Westerlanders, without their Lord Tywin present, would want to put on the finest face of things. So they wove their way along the ridge to a relatively free spot, with a view of course.

"Urchin, here's a star, move on so your betters may have the vantage of our journey's end," Tomas, a lordling pledged to the Crag demanded haughtily. "Or feel the lash of my whip."

The ragamuffin folded within a faded grey cloak half stood, half sat perched like a rider atop an oddly shaped milk colored stump. The short figure shifted to look towards the threatening voice and the wind caught the hood, flipping it back.

"A skin of wine or a song would suit better; and then I might tell you your true destiny, lord blind eyes," an aged voice cackled.

"A crone and a dwarf!" swore Lord Tomas.

"Witch," others whispered immediately, taken by surprise.

The face was vaguely womanly. Around it billowed wild white hair that must have been as long as her near three foot stature. The skin was pale to match the weirwood, but the eyes were eerily fierce and blood red. "Nay, just a grandmother in search of a last glimmer of the boy who was forever lost," she replied with weary tinged sorrow.

Several of the knights, squires, and men-at-arms fearing ill omens reached for the reassurance of pommels.

"No! Stand down!" roared the young Lion, pushing his mount to the forefront.

Brynden dug his spurs in too. This day would not be spoiled with innocent or cursing blood if he could help it.

"The lesser of two giant brothers comes to protect me. I am honored."

Compassion fell to suspicion and a hint of anger. "You know of Tyrion. Yet you mock him?" he accused. Jaime Lannister had never hidden the affection he held for his misshapen, younger brother.

"In time, always time, a halfman's shadow may stretch longer than a mountain's."

Apparently mollified, Brynden saw the tension ease in the young knight's strong shoulders, though not as quick as it had risen. "Prophecy?" the young knight whispered.

A lop sided grin or grimace revealed few crooked and brown teeth within. "Dreams. My last prophecies died and were reborn another's at Summerhall. Only dreams remain."

Ser Jaime pulled out a skin from a saddle bag. "May the warmth of this suit your old bones better, grandmother," he offered, having maneuvered his mount right up to the stump.

"Kindness from the lion. A path to danger, but I thank you," she accepted and downed a goodly amount.

"Let me take you to your lost kin," Ser Jaime suggested gently.

Another amused cackle. "No, no, child of the Age. Mice nibble for crumbs. He was not the first dragon born in secrecy nor shall he be the last. I have seen what I have come to see. The high place beckons my heart back." With that, she hopped nimbly enough off the stump. And then more miraculously a cane as twisted as the stump appeared in her warped hand.

All the riders, Brynden included, backed off; giving her a wide berth. She began to wobble west along the ridge line, away from the road.

With chills up his back and hackles raised, the Blackfish opened his mouth like a hooked trout. He could not resist. "What other dreams have you had, grandmother?"

The hag stopped, but did not turn back to face them. "The ripple of the bog devil upon the currents shall begin the unravelling of the spider's web. What shall be revealed? Good or ill? Yet more webs? Life or ruin? Only the five great beasts beneath the flower draped sun shall decide."

Possibilities leapt into his mind. He started to …

"Ask me no more. The rising stench sickens me. I gorged on grief enough to fill a thousand years for Jenny's sake. I go to find my song. Many fools will sing it to hear my dreams and sooth me ere my journey ends."


	2. Day 1 - The Mother (Jaime POV)

**Day 1 – The Mother**

* * *

 **(Ser Jaime's POV)**

"I doubt she's still back there, Jaime," his friend commented, voice loud enough to be heard over the clopping of hooves as they rode down off the hill and onto the plain leading up to the packed grounds surrounding Harrenhal.

He pulled his head part around. "Hmmnn?"

"That odd crone. You keep looking back. We've ridden a mile on already. No way you can spy her from here," explained Addam rationally.

"No, I wasn't looking for her."

The youth riding beside him raised his eyebrows dubiously. "Well she spooked me. Thought she was a grumkin, going to grant me the one wish I shouldn't have." The heir of Ashemark gave an exaggerated shiver.

"I haven't thought of her since I changed into my breast plate and cape," the knight honestly told the squire. The heir of Casterly Rock gleamed in gold and crimson, outshining all the other members of their party in splendor.

"Then why in Seven Hells do you keep looking back?" Addam asked his childhood friend with an exaggerated aggrieved tone.

"Pox on you," Jaime snorted with equal faux passion. "I'm just keeping an eye out for Uncle Kevan."

The squire half giggled and half laughed out loud.

Jaime glared at him, this time with true anger.

Finally words came out of Addam's snickering mouth. "No wonder you've been on edge these last few days. I'd be worried too if my Uncle came galloping up with a betrothal agreement to that …" His mouth suddenly clapped shut and his eyes surreptitiously scanned about for Brynden Tully.

Now it was Jaime's turn to laugh at a friend's discomfort. One simply did not anger _that_ particular knight. _Especially_ by casting aspersions upon his family – Family, Duty, Honor. Fine house words.

Though, he did have to agree with Addam. While Lysa Tully and her thick auburn hair were attractive enough for a slip of a fourteen year old girl. Not that he nor Uncle Kevan had seen much of her in the five days he had lodged in Riverrun. A lingering illness of the belly the Maester and Lord Hoster had explained. As far as he remembered from his previous visit, the child had the personality of … her house's fish. Blah, he shuddered to contemplate marriage to that.

The chit's two year older sister, Catelyn; now, she was a different tale: prettier, curvier, more vivacious, yet suitably proper for a future great lady. The Wolves of Winterfell were gaining more of value there than just an alliance between two lords paramount.

Still, even that one was a far cry from Cersei; as beautiful as the moon might be, it was just a pale imitation of the sun. He burned for his sister. He must have her, no matter what others' plans would wind up in ruin. The longer Uncle Kevan stayed away, the greater the chance of a contract having been reached for him with the Tullys.

On the other side of the blade edge, the longer it took for his Uncle to arrive at Harrenhal, the better chances Cersei's plan would succeed. And they could be together … always ... somehow.

"I wonder if Harrenhal will have any more witches and fortune tellers?" Addam asked, pulling Jaime away from the day dreams that he suddenly noticed were causing his member to engorge.

"What?"

"Well that crone certainly didn't sound as if she was coming down to do business here. My father's tourney was too small to attract much in the ways of mummers and whores and jugglers and foreigners and jesters. They add spice to a good ... Ha, spice. That's the thing."

"What now?" Jaime smirked in irritation at his rambling friend.

"House Spicer; new blood. You remember, the daughter married Lord Westerling three or four years back."

"And?"

"The mother is old Maggy the Frog.

"How does that have anything to do with me?"

"Nothing really ... just, I remember at Lord Tywin's tourney for his Grace, she had a tent. Heard she scared the shite out of little Jeyne Farman. That was the night the Hetherspoon girl died from falling down the well. Wasn't Cersei with them too? Can't remember."

"She was," Jaime answered. How his sister had shivered and cried that night in his arms. She refused or couldn't tell him why. He had never seen her so afraid. Or overwhelmed with tears, at least not for another seven nights; when word spread that King Aerys had rejected father's offer to betroth Prince Rhaegar to Cersei."

"Well, they don't scare me," Addam proclaimed. "I'll find one and ask when Lord Lucion will make a knight of me. Just like you."

Jaime sent a silent prayer to the _Mother_ that she gift him Uncle Kevan's continued delay. Then he would receive a knighthood of a different kind. And then Cersei. Forever.

* * *

A lightly tented area of moderate height was spied amongst the throngs of people, livestock, pavilions, booths, and other temporary structures put up to house, feed, drink, fuck, and occasionally wash what was now likely the fifth most populous spot in all Westeros. The intended destination was in fact shite with regards to not being located anywhere near the main entrance to Harrenhal, Harrentown, the waters of the God's Eye, or the tourney grounds.

The gorgeous colored, large tents of the most significant lords were ensconced close to the well situated giant banners of the earlier arriving Three Headed Dragon of the Targaryens', Falcon of the Arryns', the Direwolf of the Starks', the Stag of the Baratheons', the Golden Rose of the Tyrells', and the Spear Pierced Red Sun of the Martells'. Lord Tywin's and Lord Hoster's absence had left the houses of the Riverlands and Westerlands no agreed upon place to center their banner lords.

To accompanying gripes and laments by the lordlings and knights about their woeful plight, Lord Lucion paid out coin from Golden Tooth's coffers to free up the hillock for the party's own tents.

"Will you have your men pitch with us, Ser Brynden?" Jaime asked the renowned knight.

"A gracious offer, Ser Jaime. But after three weeks close quarters, perhaps you grow weary of this trout's company."

"Well I wasn't offering to share quarters again, good Ser," he laughed. "They wouldn't be _that_ close."

Blue eyes gazed disconcertingly a moment into Jaime's soul.

"This is Lord Whent's tourney. I wouldn't want it said Lord Hoster's brother did anything to take away from his banner lord's glory. I shall have a tent pitched in anonymity somewhere over there," he gestured. Pointing halfway between the hillock and where white and grey banner of the Starks' flew.

'How diplomatic, if Uncle Kevan arrives with what I pray he does not,' Jaime thought. "Ser Brynden, anonymous?" he smirked by way of actual answer. "Do you not intend to add your name to the lists?"

"Ha, the lion purrs instead of roars," the Riverlander chuckled. "I will. I will. And if we meet, go easy on an old knight will you?"

"And the trout floats a lure to try and hook the lion. Nay, Ser. I shall not. And I believe you would be disappointed in me if I did."

"Aye, lad," he said fondly; the use of 'lad' not rankling Jaime in the least. "I would. You have a promising future. But for now, I think I shall bid my farewell. While the trout shall not try to outshine the bat these next ten days, it is dutiful that I go pay my respects to my former goodsister's cousins."

Both knights raised gloved hands in partying. Then, as Ser Brynden started to turn his piebald mount away, the knight paused. "Perhaps the son of Lord Tywin Lannister and the heir of Casterly Rock should come greet Lord Walter and Lady Shella as well."

"Inside Harrenhal?"

Ser Brynden nodded.

"Will his Grace be there?"

"In the castle? Most like. I think his pavilion will mostly be used for resting during the day between bouts." The largest tent, in the black and red colors of the king's house, was in fact beside the Grand Concourse for the joust. "But I doubt King Aerys will be with Lord Walter."

A step closer to Cersei. Cersei's raven had claimed it was arranged, but how it was arranged to unfold remained a mystery. Boldness and courage in the face of uncertainty mattered. "Then I shall gladly remain your companion, if only for a little while longer, Ser Brynden."

* * *

The cliff like walls made King's Landing's outer defenses seem almost modest by comparison. Depending on the position of the sun, they cast giant shadows. If the tourney were during the heat of summer, many more would have encamped close by them it to take advantage of the cool darkness they cast. With Spring only barely begun, lords and smallfolk alike were instead greedy for warmth. The multitudes dwindled to mere torrents as the pair of knights approached the main gate.

Some minor knight in charge of the half dozen men-at-arms wearing the livery of the bat recognized them by their livery and promptly bowed the pair of knights entrance. The tunnel passing through the thick walls was of a length and dimness to mind Jaime of Casterly Rock's under belly, lacking only the low, heavy hum of the ocean's incessant battle with the granite.

The return of light revealed an immense courtyard, interior walls, both active and ruined buildings, as well as the five mammoth towers whose tops had only been visible from without. The light also revealed a sentinel in a white cloak.

"Ser Arthur," both knights acknowledged; Jaime more fervently than Ser Brynden. The Sword of the Morning, reckoned the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, had after all bestowed knighthood on Jaime. He smiled openly at the sight of him.

"Sers, word of your coming has reached the King's ear. His Grace would have words with the son of his Hand. Come, Ser Jaime, you are expected in the Kingspyre Tower," the Kingsguard commanded.

Jaime's heart quickened. The moment of truth must certainly be approaching fast.

"Might I accompany you there as well, Ser?" Ser Brynden asked courteously. "I wished to pay the regards of Riverrun to Lord Walter and Lady Shella."

Violet eyes, so often merry and warm around the campfire, remained those cold ones Jaime remembered from duty and battle. "Lord and Lady Whent have granted his Grace sole use of the Kingspyre for the duration of the tourney. The lord and lady reside in the Tower of Dread."

"And are they there now?" the older knight inquired.

"The lord is busy preparing for the opening of the tourney on the morrow. I have not kept track of his every movement," the Sword of Morning replied curtly.

Bushy Tully eyebrows twitched once. "A last, slight boon of information, if I may, Ser?"

Arthur Dayne nodded once for permission.

"Are all five of your brothers here at Harrenhal?"

"Yes."

Ser Brynden gave a short, tilted nod. Then, "Ser Jaime, if his Grace asks about your journey here, kindly relay to him the best wishes of House Tully. I shan't keep you any longer, Ser Arthur. Duty."

"Thank you, Ser Brynden," Jaime responded with heart. "For everything." For Cersei.

They parted, with Jaime Lannister shifting companions from one boyhood hero to another, even greater, one.

The new pair rode in silence for a minute or three. If the young knight's thoughts weren't in his dreams and hundreds of miles south in King's Landing, he would have taken more note of the castle's dilapidated glory and the bustle going on around him.

"You will have your wits about you when you meet the King," the Knight of Morning more commanded than asked when at last he spoke.

"Yes, Ser Arthur. So, I hear, that is … perhaps … his Grace might …" leaving a last pregnant pause.

"It is not for the likes of the King's humblest of servants to reveal undirected the royal wishes. That is a lesson you would do well to learn, Ser." The Kingsguard chastised neatly, yet mayhap with deeper meaning.

"I understand, Ser Arthur," he answered, not able to keep a cocky grin from his face.

"I was four and twenty when Ser Gerold raised me and clasped the white cloak about my shoulders. Already a knight near a decade, with fears from the Defiance of Duskendale still in the air. Do you truly understand, Ser Jaime?

Cersei, here I come.

"Your father would understand."

No. He would not. If he knew.

* * *

As he approached, sword already retrieved off his person by Ser Oswell, the slowly pacing figure of King Aerys looked both much better and much, much worse than when Jaime had last seen him just three months earlier.

The hair of head and chin were as uncut and unruly as before. Finger nails yellow, long, broken, and jagged. The crown sat as ill-fitting as ever atop the slender frame that never gained any weight. No muscle tone, so the rich clothes hung limply off his poor body.

The differences for good and for ill were subtler. Gone was King Scab. Two weeks away from the blades of the Iron Throne and his Grace's skin lacked the usual array of nicks and half healed sores. Under the grime of the infrequently washed body, the skin was taking on an almost healthy pallor; the air of the countryside serving him better than the fetid humors of King's Landing and the Red Keep.

He knelt the correct distance from the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. "Your Grace? My Prince?" he added, for Rhaegar was present in the salon along with several others.

"Arise, Ser Jaime. Let me look at you," the king commanded in a rasping yet silky voice.

He did so. Green eyes stared cautiously into violet ones. Unlike Ser Arthur's, these where neither cold nor warm. They glowed with a burning desire. For what? He felt … uneasy. Had they always shown that way? He had seen much more of the King as a boy, when his father had served as Hand.

"You have become a man and a knight in your own right, eh, Ser Jaime? While your father is my greatest servant, it is good to see a young lion has grown fierce away from the den. What?" he chuckled softly.

Dutifully the room shared in the quiet mirth.

He bowed, in response. "I am ever at your service, my King," he swore. For a half a second he wished his father was there to shield him. But the Lion hadn't been there to protect him when he crossed swords with the Kingswood Brotherhood. Father would keep him from Cersei. Never again.

"Good. Good. Rhaegar, take your Griffin, Skull, and Salmon elsewhere. The Dragon and the Young Lion would speak without lesser creatures sneaking in to gnaw at our words."

"My royal father, if I may …"

"Bah, do as I command. I will not be henpecked by my own son. Practice your knightly skills, instead of your flattery. You'll need those soon enough when the jousts start." Aerys waved the long, cracked, yellow finger nails of one hand to emphasize the dismissal.

"Your Grace," all four announced and withdrew.

The door shut.

"Come, young Ser. Sit with me. Drink some wine."

Even into a regular cushioned wood chair, Aerys lowered himself delicately. Arms held up. Hot eyes darting back and forth to ensure nothing would ensnare him. Cut him. Harm him. "A fine Arbor. Sit. Drink." More command than request.

Jaime smiled and thought of Cersei. He did as ordered, though remaining very stiff and proper in doing so. "Yes, very fine, your Grace."

Aerys smiled, not saying anything. Jaime continued to smile, but remained mum. Likely a good skill to have as a Kingsguard. Finally the king carefully lifted the goblet to his own lips and took a small sip. "But not so fine as the sword work you did in my name. Sers Barristan and Arthur have relayed to me much of what you did in the Kingswood. I would hear it now in your own words. Was their fear? Excitement? Boast if you will, but speak to me the truth of it."

Hesitantly at first, in drips and drabs, Jaime spoke. An action here. Then the boredom of the search. A blaze of energy as they followed a hot trail. His first killing.

Aerys nodded along in seeming understanding. A pointed question here. A comparison there to his own experiences alongside Jaime's father during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. A request for clarification as he'd heard the encounter told differently from others. An hour or more passed pleasantly. Jaime, at one pause to accept a new cup of wine, noticed that some of the strange heat in the king's eyes had dulled.

"Ser Arthur says young Jaime has the talent to be a great knight. Ser Barristan agrees; however, the Bold points out he is not just young, but very, very young. You are only five and ten, aren't you?" his sovereign demanded quickly.

"Aye, your Grace," Jaime answered promptly, sitting up to his full height in the chair. He was already six foot and still growing. What's more, he was not a servant to be talked about as if he were not present.

"What is your opinion, Ser Gerold?"

"Ser Barristan earned his moniker while still in swaddling clothes, your Grace. Who is he to talk of youth?"

The king cackled in amusement.

"I was three and twenty when I swore my vows to you Old Bull," the Bold complained with little heat.

"We grow old in your service, your Grace. Ser Arthur vouches for him and the Knight of Morning is a decade younger than the next closest of us. I would not say you chose poorly if you decide upon this young blood."

"Ser Jaime?" the king asked.

"Your Grace," he answered cautiously, not wishing to upset the moment by misdeed or word.

Aerys scowled. "Tywin Lannister's son should not play the fool. Words were conspired to be whispered in the correct ears, Ser. You know why you are here." Statement, not question.

"Yes, your Grace." Somewhat abashed, he lowered his head for a moment.

"Will you renounce all worldly concerns to give me your sole allegiance?"

For Cersei. The promise of her touch on his lips. The irresistible urge she sent surging through his loins. He would live any lie to grasp that just one more time. His knightly vows meant nothing. "I will."

"Will you protect me from war and assassination? Will you stay the swords and arrows though they cost you your life in exchange for mine so I may see even just one more day or hour or minute?"

"On my honor, your Grace; if you will have me."

"Then tomorrow you will be anointed as the newest of my Kingsguard."

Jaime slipped out of his chair and grasped the thin, scaly skin of Aerys' hand and kissed it. He saw only Cersei's long flowing golden hair. He smelled only her perfume. He would kiss a thousand gangrenous dragons for her.

Aerys laughed coldly, then commanded, "Ser Arthur, take your protégé to the Sept and prepare him. He must know _all_ the duties required of him by the morrow. And his soul must be pure as your cloak."


End file.
